Chapter 4 #2
Bane at the far end, sitting stiff and formal despite the casual clothes.
His jaw is tight. He's not looking at me.
Hasn't looked at me since he sat down. Deliberately.
Pointedly. The avoidance is aggressive. His hazel eyes are fixed on his plate, but I can feel the tension radiating off him.
Like heat. Like electricity. Like something about to snap.
The food arrives right on time. The doorbell rings.
Someone—I don't see who—answers it. Voices at the door.
The rustle of plastic bags. Fried rice, orange chicken, lo mein, dumplings.
The smell fills the dining room—soy sauce, ginger, sesame oil, the sweet tang of orange sauce. Enough to feed twelve people.
Richard dishes out plates like this is normal. Spooning rice, passing containers, making sure everyone has enough. Like we're a normal family having a normal dinner. Like this isn't the most uncomfortable thing I've ever experienced. Like we all want to be here.
We're not.
"So, Max," Richard says, passing me the fried rice. "How was your first day here? Atlas said he showed you around."
"It was fine." I pass the rice to Margot without meeting Richard's eyes.
"Just fine?" Richard smiles. It's meant to be encouraging. Warm. It makes me want to crawl under the table. "Come on, the house is pretty impressive. What do you think?"
"It's nice."
"Nice." He laughs a little. The sound is forced. Uncomfortable. "You're a man of few words, aren't you?"
I don't answer. Just focus on my plate. On moving food around with my fork. On being anywhere but here.
Margot shoots me a look. Pleading. Worried. Come on, sweetheart. Try.
"Margot tells me you're in school," Richard continues, undeterred. "Business, right?"
"Yeah." I stab a piece of chicken. Don't eat it.
"Good field. Practical.” He takes a bite of lo mein. Chews. Swallows. “What's your focus?"
My throat tightens.
Creative writing.
"General business. Haven't specialized."
"Smart. Keep your options open." Richard leans forward slightly. Interested. Engaged. Trying so hard to connect. "You know, Atlas handles most of the business operations for Graves Industries. If you ever want to shadow him, learn the ropes, I'm sure he'd be happy to show you around."
Atlas nods. Once. Sharp. Professional. "Of course."
"That's generous." I force the words out. They sound wrong. Stilted.
"You don't sound very interested," Richard observes. His smile is starting to strain at the edges.
I meet his eyes. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't say much of anything." The smile fades. Just slightly. But there's something else there now. Curiosity. Maybe frustration. "I'm just trying to get to know you, Max. We're going to be living under the same roof. It would be nice to understand who you are."
"There's not much to understand." My knuckles are white around my fork.
"Everyone has a story." He sets down his own fork. Gives me his full attention.
Oh god.
My jaw tightens. Teeth grinding. The muscle jumps in my cheek. "Not everyone wants to tell it."
The table goes quiet. Complete silence. Even the sounds of eating stop. Everyone frozen.
Richard sits back, clearly taken aback. His eyebrows rise. His mouth opens slightly. "I'm not trying to pry. I'm just—"
He swallows before continuing.
"What about before Margot?" he tries again, voice careful. "Where were you living?"
"Foster care."
"Right, of course. Margot mentioned that." He doesn't push, but I can see he wants to. His fingers drum once on the table. His jaw works. "That must've been difficult. How many homes were you in?"
"I don't remember." A lie. I remember every single one. Every address. Every face. Every reason I was sent away.
"You don't remember?"
"No." Flat. Cold. Shutting down.
"Come on, Max," Richard says, voice softer now. "You can talk to us. We're family now. I'd like to understand what you've been through—"
"There's nothing to understand." My voice comes out flat. Cold. Each word like a nail. Like a wall. Like a barrier I'm building brick by brick. "It was a long time ago."
Margot shoots me a look. Worried. Knowing. Her eyes are sad. Her mouth is tight. She knows what I'm doing. She knows why. And she hates it.
Richard opens his mouth to say something else, but Bane cuts him off. His voice sharp. Sudden. Cutting through the tension like a knife.
"Just drop it, Dad."
"I'm only trying to—" Richard turns to his son, surprise on his face.
"I know what you're trying to do." Bane sets down his fork. It clatters against the plate. Too loud. Harsh. "But he clearly doesn't want to be here."
"Bane—"
"What?" Bane's eyes lock on me. Finally.
Finally he looks at me. And the hatred in his eyes is palpable.
Real. Burning. "It's obvious, isn't it? You're sitting there like this is some kind of hostage situation.
One-word answers. Won't look anyone in the eye.
My dad is bending over backward trying to make you feel welcome, and you can't even pretend to give a shit. "
"I didn't—" My voice cracks. Breaks.
"You don't want to be part of this family, Carter? Fine. Say that.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, getting closer like he's trying to intimidate me. It's working. “But don't sit here and act like we're the problem when you're the one who can't even be bothered to try."
Zero makes a low sound—almost a laugh. A chuckle. Dark. Amused. "Cold as fuck," he mutters, just loud enough to hear. His eyes are on me. Watching my reaction. Feeding off it. "Margot really picked a winner."
My stomach drops. Everything inside me goes cold. Then hot. Then cold again. Shame burning through me like acid.
"Hey," Atlas says, voice low and warning. His hand comes down on the table. Not hard. But firm. Final. "That's enough. Both of you."
"Why?" Bane shoves his chair back. The legs scrape against the floor. Loud. Violent. "It's true. We're all thinking it."
"Bane, apologize," Richard says firmly. His voice has gone hard. Authoritative. Father, not friend.
"For what? Calling it like it is?" Bane stands. His chair rocks back. Almost tips.
"Now."
Bane stands. To his full height. Looking down at everyone. Looking down at me. "Whatever. I'm done." He throws his napkin on the table. It lands in his plate.
He walks out. The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.
"Max—" Margot starts, reaching for me, her hand extended, but I'm already standing. My chair screeches back. I almost knock over my water glass, catching it at the last second.
"I'm sorry," I say, voice tight. "I—I need to go."
"Honey, wait—" She's on her feet too. Coming around the table.
But I don't wait. I leave the table, the food, the stares. I take the stairs two at a time and lock myself in my room.
My chest is too tight. Crushing. Compressing. Like someone's sitting on it.
I can't breathe. Can't get air. Can't get enough. Gasping but nothing comes.
Pretentious asshole.
Acting like he's asking you to confess to a crime.
Stop being so fucking closed off.
I sink onto the bed and press my palms against my eyes. Hard. Until I see spots. Until the pressure is almost pain.
He's right. I know he's right. Bane. Zero. All of them. They're all right. But I don't know how to be anything else. Don't know how to open up. Don't know how to let people in. Linda made sure of that.
There's a knock on my door an hour later. Soft. Tentative. Three gentle raps.
"Max?" Margot's voice. Soft. Worried. "Can I come in?"
I don't answer. I'm lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the swirls in the plaster. Trying not to exist.
She tries the handle. Locked.
"Sweetheart, please. Let me in." Her voice is closer now. Like she's pressed against the door. Like she's trying to get to me through the wood.
I stay silent. My throat is too tight. If I speak, I'll cry. If I cry, I'll never stop. After a long moment, I hear her sigh.
"Okay," she says. "I'll give you space. But I'm here when you're ready to talk."
Her footsteps fade down the hall.
I pull out my diary and start writing. My hand is shaking so hard the letters are barely legible.
I fucked up. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be what they want me to be.
Bane's right. I'm closed off. I'm cold. I'm everything Linda said I was.
Pretentious. Difficult. Wrong.
I stop writing.
Cross it out.
Try again.
I just want to disappear.